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  Shannon snorted and shook his head. He left her place without looking back, closing the door with a firm hand, just shy of a slam, and muttering, “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Planning had always been his thing, and making sure Rowdy Vargas got dead was no different. Since it wasn’t just his old friend in the apartment, logic told Carter he was better off leaving the collateral damage at a whopping zero, so his mission would have to involve finesse.

  Normally, he wouldn’t give a shit who saw him or who ended up in a body bag, but he wasn’t done in Phoenix, so he’d have to watch his ass. Being remembered enough to be described was the same as cops in general—a no-no. His trip didn’t include seeing any metal bars.

  He wasn’t worried. For a guy with a limp, he could do stealthy.

  He’d taken up a vigil outside the building for the last few days.

  Carter had seen Rowdy and the kid again—but only once, the night of the same afternoon he’d first driven by. He’d also spotted a pretty dark-skinned woman with hair just like the kid. Had to be the mother.

  She’d come home alone that night, and gone back out with Rowdy and the child, but the trip had been short, and they’d carried a few pizza boxes back inside the place.

  As he’d watched, he’d learned the female drove a silver Nissan, and often wore a white lab coat, like she was a doctor or scientist or something. Sometimes, she left at odd hours—really early or really late—and Carter had followed her to the university hospital twice.

  He never saw his old buddy alone, or he could’ve taken care of him. He wasn’t a baby killer, and he’d seen too much as a kid himself before he’d been taken away by Child Protective Services, so he wasn’t about to kill Rowdy in front of the kid.

  Carter still had nightmares of his mom killing his dad. He’d only been six years old—a long-ass time ago. He might call himself a pussy about it, but he didn’t want to traumatize another person like that.

  Plus, he was curious as to who the woman and kid were to Rowdy. It took a lot to hide a girl and son from their crew.

  Had anyone known?

  The guy had disappeared any time cops put the heat on them, so Carter could only assume he’d come here, to Phoenix, to be with his family.

  However, he’d seen Rowdy with women. Fucking women. A lot of them, so if this chick was his woman, he sure as hell hadn’t been faithful to her. Not that Carter blamed the guy. Money tended to get pussy thrown at a man. When things had been good for their crew, they’d been good.

  Speaking of dough, Carter’s gut told him that the black duffel he’d seen Rowdy carrying had cash in it. The guy had had it in one hand, but it’d hung close to the ground, as if he’d really had to heft it. If it’d been heavy, maybe it was packed with enough to steal.

  The guy’s POS old Ford truck wasn’t in the parking lot. There was a detached three-level garage, but Carter doubted it was in there. When he’d seen Rowdy, he’d parked on the surface lot, like he couldn’t get in the garage.

  The woman’s Nissan had left about thirty minutes earlier. He could only assume the kid was with her, despite the late hour. Or maybe Rowdy was with the kid in the apartment. Or… Carter would get lucky and his old buddy would be alone inside the place.

  If that was the case, it was game over. Problem solved. Free money was the prize.

  He’d watched the woman get the mail a few times, even knew where the right box was, in the wall to the left side of the front of the building, in a covered little alcove. The thing kind of looked like a block of mini lockers at a school.

  Watching closely had given him her apartment number.

  He didn’t think there were any secured areas of the building. He’d find out for sure when he went inside, and deal with it then. Carter had been putting off the B and E, but it was time. Tonight.

  His first mission was recon, unless Rowdy really was alone. The guy had always kept his money under a bed in their hold place in LA, so Carter would look there first.

  He’d get revenge—which was what this was all about, of course.

  Carter parked in the lot, like any other resident or visitor. Pocketed his keys and glanced around. Not a soul in sight, but it was late. He wouldn’t know if he could get inside the building until he was at the double glass doors, but nerves tingled down his spine. He shook himself, growling lowly. He wasn’t a coward.

  Fitting his baseball cap tighter to his head, he kept his gaze low and his gait as smooth as he could.

  Security cameras were on the corners of the building, so Carter could only assume they were inside, too. He didn’t want to make waves. Had to avoid his face being clearly recorded at all costs.

  He’d be quick about this trip. Just in and out to get the layout of things. Discover who he was dealing with, and maybe take care of Rowdy. See how much money was in there, too.

  The main entrance wasn’t locked. No keycards required or locks to pick.

  Excellent.

  Carter still hadn’t seen another person. All to his favor. He pushed the doors and went inside, carefully logging everything his eyes landed on.

  The lobby was a pretty good size, with bronze-colored granite or marble floors and walls. It had a shiny finish that caught the florescent overhead light.

  There was a desk to the left, but no one was there. No chair either, as if it hadn’t been used in some time. A closed door was to the right of that, labeled Stairs on a black placard with white letters, complete with a stick figure.

  Rowdy’s woman’s place was on the eighth floor, so No thanks. Carter wasn’t hefting his bad leg up that many flights.

  A large bulletin board was on the wall around the corner from what he sought—the elevators. His eyes scanned tacked papers—lost dog, dresser for sale, babysitter available—and the building’s laminated fitness center schedule.

  The ding didn’t come fast enough after he’d pressed the up arrow, but he hurried on as soon as the doors opened and punched the button for the eighth floor. He was alone, and was pleased to discover that didn’t change when he got to his destination.

  Again, he scanned the hallway, but there wasn’t a sound. At the end of a long hallway, there was a window with a small table and a green leafy plant at its center—more fancy hotel than apartment-buildingesque.

  Carter made it to apartment eight-hundred-eleven as quickly as his bum leg would carry him and popped his way through the lock without much effort, but made sure not to touch the metal with his bare fingers. He tsked. Security here wasn’t tight enough. Not that he should complain.

  He pushed the door open and palmed his H & K. Waited two breaths before advancing—just in case he was surprising his dear old friend. It was all dark and quiet from what he could see.

  Carter loosened his shoulders, but he didn’t slip his gun away just yet. The place opened up to the left, with a sizable living room and a large flat-screen on the center of the wall. The furniture was dark and all matched, except for the red, green and blue brightly colored table and chairs in the corner that shouted that a kid lived there, too.

  There was a formal dining room farther off to the left—there was a large light wood table that sat eight. He assumed the kitchen was the room off the right of that, but he’d confirm in a moment. A hallway was to his immediate right and had a nightlight plugged in near the floor, but it didn’t illuminate much. There were four doorways to explore.

  He took a tour around the living room, examining all the pictures on the walls. Just the kid at various ages. None of the mom or Rowdy.

  Carter slid back to the door and closed it silently. Yeah, having to open it back up in a hurry would be a bitch, but he couldn’t risk leaving it ajar and have a concerned neighbor call the boys in blue.

  He hit the hallway, where he assumed the bedrooms were. The first door on the left was a bathroom, so he didn’t stay for a long look. The door next to that was open a crack, and he peeked inside.

  It was a kid’s room, all hap
py colors like in the living room, and with a poster of Superman on the wall. An old school one, with Christopher Reeve on it. On the opposite wall was the new version from the last few years, with Henry Cavill flying in a similar position. The bedding on the single bed was Superman-themed, too. Large red and blue letters spelled out Devon on the wall above the bed.

  Carter left the room alone. He doubted the money was there.

  The door right across from the boy’s room was closed. He slid his hand inside his jacket sleeve and turned the knob, cursing the fact he didn’t have gloves. So much for being prepared.

  It was decorated with all pinks and purples. Not a man’s touch in sight, and the room was huge. The bed was big—a queen—at the center of the room, on a fancy four-poster frame. It was made up neatly, with a mountain of decorative pillows—all very girly colors—looking as if they’d been meticulously arranged.

  Probably the master bedroom.

  A woman’s scent, something clean and citrusy, was in the air.

  He inspected the place thoroughly, but didn’t touch anything that would hold his prints. There were framed landscapes on two of the walls, both rich pastel colors that complemented the pink and purple bedding and the dark purple overstuffed chair draped in clothing. Hospital scrubs, a white coat like the one he’d seen the woman wearing, a few shirts and pants—the chair was about the only thing messy in the room.

  Carter spun around and flipped the frilly bed-skirt up. The flashlight on his crappy burner cell told there wasn’t a black duffel under there. Nothing but dust bunnies, their kids and grandkids, and a few shoe boxes.

  He checked the walk-in closet. The damn thing was full to the brim of clothing—and it was color coded. Like a freaking rainbow on both sides. Carter let his eyes sweep up and down. Even the shoes on the rack were in order—all the sneakers together, then boots, then high heels. A purple suitcase stood in one corner, and at a glance, he could tell all the clothes belonged to a woman. No male things hanging on either side.

  But…

  No black duffel.

  Carter gave the attached bathroom a glance. The same scent was thick in the humid air, as if the woman had showered right before she’d left. Bottles were arranged by size all around the sink, next to toothpaste and a single purple-handled brush.

  Maybe she’s not your woman, huh, Rowdy? Whoever she is, she’s a damn neat freak.

  The last bedroom was at the end of the hallway, and he made a quick entry. It was small, like the kid’s room, and decorated sparsely. The bedding was a neutral tan, and the landscape on the wall matched the earth tones.

  He hurried to the bed. It seemed like a double, smaller than the one in the master. Carter didn’t need his flashlight. The light from a streetlamp shone through the open blinds, revealing the dark outline. He dragged the bag out from under the bed, then flipped the nightstand lamp on.

  The damn thing was heavy.

  He slid his gun back into his waistband. The two zippers’ screech cut through the air, but Carter’s wince melted away when the smell of money hit his nose.

  “Damn.”

  Definitely worth stealing.

  He couldn’t risk taking it out to count now, but going on what thirty grand had looked like in a similar bag—the money he’d borrowed from Bubba—there was a lot more than thirty K here.

  Carter wanted to take it tonight. Visit Kai and tell him to go fuck himself. But he couldn’t.

  He didn’t want Rowdy to know he’d been there. The guy wouldn’t leave this kind of cash lying around, so he’d be back for it.

  Carter would continue to watch and make his move when he was ready. When the time was right. When Rowdy least expected it.

  He needed to wrap up and get the hell out of here. It’d already been too long. Minutes that had felt like hours. He slipped into the last room he needed to check—the kitchen.

  It was a galley style, but also had a small round breakfast table at the end of the sizable island. Carter turned the lights on and spotted the little nook in the corner on the counter. It was a mail sorter, full of lively little envelopes.

  He pulled out the stack—sorted by size—and flipped through it. “Camille Bonner, huh?” So she wasn’t Rowdy’s wife, unless she hadn’t taken his name.

  Carter snapped a few pics with his phone and turned to go. His eyes grazed the refrigerator, and he froze.

  Among the kid-art on display, a small magnetic dry-erase board had a note and a ten digit phone number. It’d been written by a neat hand in black ink.

  Eric’s new number.

  Carter smiled. Pay. Dirt.

  * * * *

  Rowdy studied the shitty popcorn ceiling of the crappy roadside motel in Nowhere, Utah. He’d been on the road for a few days but it felt like a year. He stopped when exhausted and only at seedy hotels with riff-raff like him—where not a lot of questions were asked. Where eyes were averted and people didn’t want to be noticed or remembered. They all politely ignored each other with the same hope—You didn’t see me. I didn’t see you. It’s all good.

  He’d ditched the Arizona plates on his truck when he’d crossed into Utah. Stolen some Utah ones at the first truck-stop he’d pulled in to. Cops tended to overlook in-state plates, zoning in on non-local ones, in his experience.

  Sighing, he rolled over on the uncomfortable cheap mattress. It was a king, but huge didn’t make up for lack of quality. Nothing like the bed at Cami’s.

  Rowdy doubted he’d be here all night. He’d paid cash for the room, so it wasn’t like he had to check out, either. He couldn’t sleep, even though he’d been lying in the same spot for over an hour. It wasn’t late, before six p.m., and he’d wanted to crash after he’d stuffed his face with Burger King, but sleep so wasn’t happening. He’d driven all day and should’ve been fatigued.

  He was in northern Utah, and he could—would—be in Wyoming tomorrow, but he had nowhere specific to be, and wasn’t really in a hurry. Just wanted to keep Cami and Devon safe by getting gone, even though his heart hurt more with every mile he drove away from Phoenix.

  Rowdy didn’t think Carter would look for him in a state that was sparsely populated and winter was still with a capital W, even though spring was right around the corner. Forecasts he’d caught at the previous craptacular roadside inn were pretty dire—blizzards and frigid temps.

  He’d lived in the southwest over the course of his childhood, then California after becoming an adult, so he wasn’t overly excited about snow, but he’d stop at a sporting goods store or something and get some winter gear.

  Where could he go? It was a delicate balance, really. Rowdy didn’t want to run to a town so small he’d be spotlighted as You’re not from around here, or land in a city too-big, either, with a lot of cops.

  Shouting outside the thin walls made him jump, and he cursed. He flipped to his back and the bed creaked. He resisted the urge to reach for the gun he’d bought out of some thug’s trunk before he’d left Phoenix. The serial number had been scraped off the Sig, but he didn’t care about that, either. Was hoping to not have to use it.

  He crept to the window and peeked around the smelly, crusty old drapes. He watched a scantily clad woman arguing with a man dressed way too nicely for this place.

  Probably a working girl and her pimp.

  An oversized meathead got out of a suped-up Escalade—which also stuck out like a sore thumb in the motel’s small lot, with its huge chrome rims and mother-of-pearl finish to the ivory paintjob.

  The guy’s bulk screamed bodyguard. He was able to calm the woman, then the three got into that Caddy SUV and took off.

  Rowdy’s heart calmed and he screamed at himself for his paranoia, even if he had reason. Forcing a breath, then another, he retreated from the window, watching the dust fly when he returned the stiff fabric to its original position.

  The sun was on its way to setting, the brightness around the edges of the curtains on the decline making the room dim. There was no overhead lighting, only a lamp
by the king-sized bed. The other lamp, on the table by the crappy TV—it wasn’t even a flat-screen—didn’t work, and he wasn’t about to call what passed for a front desk to complain.

  He didn’t want to be here, but he couldn’t be where he wanted—with Cami and Devon.

  Rowdy was done with the whole car-theft thing, but what the fuck was he supposed to do now? Be on the run for the rest of his life?

  Maybe Cami was right, and when—if—the Carter thing blew over, he could go back to Phoenix and just live. Then again, he had charges in several states—not to mention the whole fugitive from the FBI thing—so how long could he stay hidden in the open and stay out of prison?

  I could always turn myself in.

  He winced. Yeah, there was that. Rowdy would even be safe behind bars—in theory. But what about his sister and nephew? If he went to the authorities and Carter made a move on them, he wouldn’t be able to act if he was locked up. Unless… Could he sing like a bird and have his family protected in return?

  Rowdy crushed his eyes shut as his heart took off like someone was chasing him. He was claustrophobic, truth be told. Of course, he’d been in and out of juvie, as well as a few stints in jail as an adult, and he wasn’t a fan. Didn’t want to walk willingly back to a small box, even if he deserved it for the crimes he’d committed.

  But he wasn’t like Carter. He was a thief, not a murderer.

  He’d have to mull it over. Rowdy knew one guy he could call from the FBI, even if he didn’t know where he was at the moment.

  Last year, a fellow crew had been infiltrated and later busted. It’d turned out that their techy had been undercover FBI. Alec or Alex something.

  Swallowing hard, he sucked in air, crushing his eyes shut, but Rowdy quickly refocused on mapping the water stains in the popcorn ceiling. One corner was puffed out, threatening to collapse into the room. Fragments of white already dusted the threadbare carpet, proving housekeeping was as sparse as the rest of the amenities at this place.